


The Lord Is With Thee

by MollyC



Category: The Dresden Files - Jim Butcher
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-17
Updated: 2017-01-17
Packaged: 2018-09-18 05:39:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9370583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MollyC/pseuds/MollyC
Summary: Only Harry Dresden could think something so overdone was convincing.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Pray for us sinners](https://archiveofourown.org/works/253701) by [melannen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/melannen/pseuds/melannen). 



I had sent men into Undertown because an opportunity to put Harry Dresden in my debt was not to be missed.  I'd sent Sigrun Gard with them because the report of the trouble Dresden was in sounded like Faerie, and I don't waste men on opponents they can't beat.  I had gone myself for a number of reasons—it would drive home the point that Dresden owed me, and it was good for morale for me to occasionally accompany the rank and file, and besides it had been a long week.  It had not, perhaps, been intelligent of me to make the decision on such a spur-of-the-moment basis that I hadn't even had time to change out of my suit, but it had seemed time was of the essence.

Unfortunately, the opposition we encountered was rather more flexible than I'd expected.  They might have been able to predict that I would send aid to the succor of Harry Dresden, but they couldn't have anticipated that I'd go myself; nonetheless the pack of Wildfae thugs cut me off from my people almost immediately and harried me through the narrow passages.  I managed to slip their net, but at the cost of becoming thoroughly lost.  I've never had the chance to learn Undertown myself; I know what ingress points to avoid on the surface, but for subterranean navigation I pay people.  It's effective, much though Dresden might mock, but it does have the disadvantage that it stops working once I'm separated from the people in question.  We'd gone in at Clark Street and I'd heard trains, but I hadn't the faintest clue how to get back there from where I was.  

I wasn't seriously hurt; though I had bruises aplenty and no doubt more I'd be feeling come morning, there was nothing that stopped me from maintaining a steady pace.  I kept my right hand to the wall, a simple navigation trick that was probably useless down here but it made me feel better to try.  I was even able to leave my flashlight off most of the time, as Undertown seemed determined to uphold every cliche of a creepy catacomb, including just enough light to make ominous shadows.  I walked with gun in hand, approaching every intersection with caution.  Even if I'd lost the fae following me as thoroughly as I thought, by all reports there were plenty of hostile entities lurking under my city.  It was a problem I intended to address at some point, but I hadn't had the resources free yet.

In a way, it was encouraging that I didn't recognize the crossroads before me; it meant that I hadn't begun retracing my steps.  Less encouraging was the ragged breathing I could faintly hear before I rounded the curve into full view.  I slowed and pressed myself to the wall for a long moment, but the sound didn't change position—and then I heard a groan.  The voice was unrecognizable with pain, but it was male.  I ducked so that my head would be at an unusual height when I edged one eye around the corner.

Harry Dresden lay against the wall, his legs sprawled most of the way across the intersection of two passages.  His duster was spread uselessly around him and there was no sign of his staff or his blasting rod.  Blood seeped between the fingers of the hand pressed to his side, visible even in the chancy light that filtered down through the web of pipes that formed the ceiling in this section.

Straightening I took a step towards him before I realized I'd meant to, and then stopped myself.  We were dealing with faeries, masters of illusion; it might be bait.  Even the Courts knew that Dresden was valuable to me alive.  Dresden, or the image of him, rolled his head weakly at the sound I made, but if he tried to speak it was no language I could read from his lips.  He groaned again and coughed, and blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.  It was such a perfect melodramatic touch that it decided me: only Harry could possibly think that such an overdone death scene was convincing, which meant it wasn't bait; it had to be real.

I don't remember holstering the gun, but I must have, because when I knelt at his side my hands were empty.  "Dresden," I said, keeping my voice calm.  "Dresden, can you hear me?  Harry?"  He didn't protest the use of his first name, or reply at all.  Cold fear washed over me.  I checked his pulse: thready, too fast, but he turned his face toward the touch of my hand.  I couldn't decide if that was a good sign or not; it probably depended on whether he knew who I was, as it seemed unlikely that he'd be willing to take comfort from a criminal scumbag even _in extremis_.

I brushed his hand away from the wound.  It was ugly, deep and ragged and far too close to the vessels surrounding the liver for my peace of mind.  I stripped off my suit jacket and bundled it up.  I didn't bother to roll up my sleeves; the whole suit was a loss no matter what and keeping my shirt cuffs clean was unlikely to save the garment when and if I had to move him.  "This will hurt, I'm sorry," I said, and pressed the ball of fabric into the wound.  He cried out and tried to convulse away, but I didn't let up; pressure was the only thing I could supply, and I knew the odds were against him—but Harry regularly lived through things that should kill him, and the mere fact that he wasn't dead yet was encouraging.  "I'm sorry, Harry, but I have to try to stop the bleeding."  He didn't answer, the cry fading into whimpers.  I bent my head.  I of all people could meet his eyes, and God knew I'd watched enough men die, but I didn't want to watch this.

My hands trembled where I leaned on them, but I ignored that for now; it didn't matter as long as I slowed the bleeding.  "Harry, I need you to stay awake," I said.  "I know it hurts, but you can't let yourself sleep."  He didn't seem to hear me; the only response was more moans.  Was it my imagination, or was his voice getting weaker?  I looked up and his eyes were closed.  "No!" I snapped.  "Stay awake, Harry, do you hear me?"  He didn't answer.  I opened my mouth to call his name again, but what emerged was a different kind of call.  " _Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum_ —"

I know that the Latin is out of style, but it's what I learned in my youth and it's what I fall back on, those rare occasions I feel the need to pray.  I don't know how many times I repeated the prayer before Harry moaned again, and his head lolled limply to one side.  "— _et in hora mortis_ ," I said, but the word all but choked me and I let myself slump, relying on my weight to keep the pressure on.   _Not him, not him,_ I thought nonsensically.

"John," said someone softly from behind me.  I held onto enough control of myself that I didn't let up on the jacket as I turned to face the threat—

Harry Dresden stood several feet away, his blasting rod in his hand but carefully not aimed at me.  He looked ridiculously concerned for someone who was bleeding out under my hands.  The sudden readiness of surprise leached out of me as quickly as it had come and I closed my eyes and drew a steadying breath—either it was Harry himself and I had nothing to fear from him, or I'd be dead before I could do anything anyway.  "Ah, yes, why not," I said, pleased to find my voice was steady.  "May I ask, are you a ghost or a hallucination? I suppose if you're a ghost you might at least be of some help."  It didn't seem outside the realm of possibility that Harry had discovered a way to leave his body even as it still breathed, and he might be able to fetch Ms. Gard.

Harry took a few steps closer, grinned at me and said, "Neither.  He's the illusion."  He reached out and tapped his bleeding double on the shoulder, which caused it to open one eye and turn its head in his direction.  As this was more reaction than I'd gotten from it all along, I was forced to concede the apparently-healthy Harry (In truth he looked a bit better than I felt, though he was clearly exhausted) might not be lying.  "Vamoose.  Make like a tree," Harry said, and the illusion's eye rolled at him even as it melted into a pool of transparent goo.

I fear I actually goggled for a second, and sat back to study my hands, now covered in the mint-green stuff in place of Harry's—the illusion's—blood.   _Ectoplasm, surely_ , thought the part of my mind that even now was calm, noticing, calculating.  I shook my head like that could order my thoughts and said, "Of course. Room 101. I should have been expecting it. Sorry about that, Mr. Dresden." I realized what I was saying and snapped my mouth shut. In my defense, I am fairly sure that the GED course Harry had taken doesn't require the reading of  _1984_.

 "Up," he said briskly, and grabbed me by the arm to haul me to my feet with his wiry strength. I was surprised to find that I needed the help; I'd stiffened, kneeling to put pressure on the illusion's wound, or I'd taken more damage than I'd realized, or both.  My legs felt as watery as the recovery after a fight, and that was a little worrying, because we weren't out of danger yet; I didn't have the luxury of folding up into a ball and weeping.  In echo of my thought, Harry said, "We need to get you out of here."  I'd have agreed but he went on, "I don't know what you were thinking, getting involved in this in the first place.  Are any of your people around?"  I eyed him sidelong but he seemed to genuinely not understand the hypocrisy of what he was saying, so: focus.  Practicalities first.

"Three levels down from the Clark Street entrance.  I think we were somewhere near the Blue Line, I heard trains."  We started to walk, leaning on each other like a pair of drunks after last call.  "They cut me off from the others. Very coordinated."  We were going back the way I'd come, and I had to hope Harry, Dresden, had a better idea of where we were than I did.

"All right.  Lucky us, that's not very far if we take the shortest route." That was a stroke of luck, I supposed, the first in a singularly unlucky night—though, to be sure, I've had worse. "Stars and stones, Gard's going to be pissed that she lost you," Dresden said, his voice full of mordant cheer.  "Make sure you tell her none of this is my fault, okay?"  His insouciance made something go  _click_ in my head.

I stopped in my tracks, forcing him to release his hold lest we both lose our balance.  I looked into his eyes, because I could, and said flatly, "That was your illusion.  You wouldn't have been that casual around an enemy trap."

He broke my gaze to stare over my shoulder and said stiffly, "It's a pretty standard defensive gambit. How was I supposed to know it was you galumphing around the corridors like an injured Behemoth?"

"You bastard," I said, still calm.  "Do you have any idea of what that suit jacket was worth?"  Of all the possible problems with his damned illusion, that was the one he'd believe, from Gentleman Johnny Marcone.  I set off again, since I could hardly lose my way in an unbranching tunnel, and after a moment Dresden followed me.

"Ah, but that's the great thing about ectoplasm: never leaves stains," he said.  From the sound of it he was flapping the jacket at my back like a bullfighter's cape, and I didn't turn to look lest I react like the bull.

"I should have known it was an illusion, but the melodrama convinced me," I told him. I've had a great deal of practice at controlling my expression and voice, so while the words were cutting the tone was not.  "'Nobody but Harry Dresden,' I thought, 'would think a death scene that overdone was convincing.'"

"I hate you," Dresden said sincerely.  I was too tired to flinch when he draped the jacket over my shoulders.


End file.
